From Lórien
by Merkwurdigeliebe
Summary: He came second in the First and finished last in the Second. The Third Age would be his masterpiece. The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter Series Crossover.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_  
**Harry Potter**

A boy almost fifteen years of age sat near an opened window, in the smallest bedroom in the house, staring into the distance. Every once and awhile he would lean back in his wooden chair and mumble something along the lines of "No… no…. that wouldn't work," and then go back to staring out into the darkening July sky.

The boy's name was Harry Potter and when the clock struck midnight Harry would be fifteen years of age. Usually the thought of another birthday would please him greatly, as his small group of friends often sent gifts, a rarity in his life. But not this year would he smile. He couldn't while there was so much wrong with the world. The thought of evil attacking that which he cared for deeply, looming above him and haunting each step, sent him into spells of heavy contemplation over what he could do about it. He leaned back once more and muttered, "That's just a dumb idea, Harry Potter."

It was only two months ago that the world he lived in most of the year had been free of a menace, vanquished to the great forests of Albania nearly thirteen years ago. But that darkness once more infiltrated the world of Wizards and Witches and it was in the darkest hour in thirteen years that something occurred to bring fourteen-year old Harry into the mess of things. He witnessed. It was with his own eyes and at the cost of some of his blood that he saw the perverse rebirth of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the greatest agent of Darkness and the greatest threat to the survival of the Wizarding World in almost a thousand years.

And when he spoke of it… almost no one believed him. No sooner had he uttered forth that which was true, had the newspapers apart of his world began printings lies. They wrote stories that portrayed Harry as an attention-seeking brat, ungrateful of his already near-idol status; they theorized that he was unstable and perhaps even mentally challenged (they cited his school test scores) and event went so far as to conclude that the whole story connected to Cedric Diggory, a young man who died by Voldemort's hand that unfortunate night in Harry's presence. They portrayed Harry Potter, their brightest hope among them as a murderer. Those who once looked to him and saw greatness, now believed every word said against him.

In all the darkness that had so quickly flooded him, there remained some light. An old man, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of the Magical School he attended, believed every word Harry said and in what was Harry's darkest hour, had confided in Harry that there would be resistance. That an Order adjourned when Voldemort first fell, would once more be called to action; that the Order would be filled with wizards and witches both intelligent and powerful and that the Order would serve as the last bastion of common sense in a world that had lost its way. It would be the only time that Harry Potter smiled in the next two months.

The hours waiting for Voldemort's first attack turned from hours to days, then to weeks – it was mid-July and yet no word of Voldemort save a spy and Dumbledore's manifested. As the time without a first strike from Voldemort grew longer, the patience of some members within the Order grew shorter. Distrust was beginning to ferment and soon heated arguments broke out. In the explosive discussions that followed, some were expelled, their minds erased of their membership to the Order. It would be grave for the Wizarding World – the seeds of the Order's destruction were planted and none knew it. Yet Harry felt it and it too plagued his mind, which tried to form words to express the cold he felt whenever he thought of the infighting and the Order.

He sighed, leaning back once more, this time in weariness. Just thinking about the whole ordeal was enough to cause a headache. This was how the days were spent, mostly. Early mornings, little eating, long showers and much thought and reading. By evening, he would feel all of it was in vain and head to bed. It would be the same this evening, except as he moved to leave his chair, a small glimmer of light caught his attention.

Looking out into the distance, a white light streaked across the now fully darkened sky at break-neck speed. Alarmed, Harry attempted to withdraw his wand from his pocket but no sooner had he touched it, had the light appeared directly in front of him, glowing brightly.

The sudden introduction of a bright light in such darkness blinded Harry as he fumbled to remain seated. Masking his eyes he slowly looked upon it, wand outstretched towards it and realized there was no harm here. It was a patronus, the last defense against dementors, dark creatures that served Voldemort, and it was perhaps the most cunning and sly way of delivering a message to anyone. It was Dumbledore's brilliance that came up with this method of communication and as Harry gazed upon the winged patronus, its shimmering beak opened and a strong voice – Dumbledore's voice - echoed forth and permeated throughout the room.

_He is coming. Move quickly._

Harry wasted no time. He hopped up from his chair, and ran to his school trunk, throwing the lid open in one fluid motion. He did not expect this moment to come to pass but now was not the time for heavy thought. Harry withdrew his backpack and grabbing only that which held any value to him – a cloak, some books belonging to his parents and a photo-album – placed them inside. He haphazardly slung the backpack over his right shoulder a split second after he got the clasp shut and spun around.

Palming his wand, he felt something stain the air around him and as he moved towards the door, a catastrophic, thundering noise ripped through the air – it came from downstairs. The shattering of glass and the dull thud of something large hitting the wooden floor soon reverberated throughout the house and Harry was suddenly frightened, something he was not accustomed to in moments where fear had to be pushed to the back of the mind. It came sweeping forward though, in this moment and in it Harry realized that which was meant to protect him – the Dursley Household which carried his mother's magic – had failed. He knew that it truly failed the same night his blood could no longer repel the Dark Lord Voldemort but both he and Dumbledore trusted the defenses would hold so long as Voldemort himself never trespassed. In the fear, Harry lost something close to him – the last true remnant of his mother. Harry closed his eyes – it was as if she were dying all over again and soon the voices and her pleading from the night of her death filled his mind.

A sad lament filled with all that was good in the world echoed through the house, causing those who trespassed great trouble for a time. It was what Lily intended – and in it, it sought to give Harry even an extra second of time.

Harry grabbed the broom given to him by his Godfather, Sirius Black, once the voices stopped. Mounting it as if it were a steed and bringing his body low along the handle so he could move more quickly, Harry zipped forth from the Dursley Household at lightning speed.

The sounds inside faded and were soon replaced with shouts echoing along the drive as Harry pushed the broom to move well above the surrounding houses. Porch-lights, inside-lights and backyard-lights soon, one-by-one, turned on, up and down Privet Drive. People in bedroom attire poured out into the streets and Harry felt there was no good in it at all – the Muggles were now involved.


	2. Chapter One

_Chapter One_  
**The Flight From Privet Drive**

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Harry pulled up while turning and the green light that brought swift death on its heels shot beneath him and his broom. Harry had but a moment to realize seven, cloaked figures on brooms were charging towards him; his eyes widened and with quick reflexes, he pushed the front of the handle down. The broom responded instantly as another killing curse soared above him. Lower to the ground he darted, sweeping one-hundred and eighty degrees towards Magnolia Crescent, the seven right behind him.

Looking back, Harry nearly caught a killing curse fired at him in the face but he barreled left and then right. He continued moving erratically, all the while gaining more momentum. He dared another look – they still pressed him, gaining on him! He wondered what madness this was – Death Eaters catching up to him, Harry Potter, a Master of the broom! He stared into the ivory off-color white mask of one of his pursuers, raised his wand and chanted, "_Malleus Maleficarum!_"

His aim was precise and the cork-screw spiraling dash of flame engulfed the Death eater's mask, his hood and his face, causing the servant of Voldemort to lose control. Screaming in agony, the Servant slammed into another and both were jarred from their brooms; the remaining five scrambled around the disaster and fired again, this time in unison, grabbing Harry by surprise - their determination to have him and be rewarded by their Master was far greater than their desire to make certain their brethren were alright. As the two Death Eaters plummeted, so did Harry as a killing curse connected with his barreling broom, shattering it into a plethora of shards in an instant.

Harry's backpack and wand slipped away from him in the explosion and as he began to freefall he swung his arms erratically in desperation. He swung them wide in an attempt to take hold of his wand once more but the wand sunk faster than he and he turned on his belly to follow its descent. His pupils widened as hope fled him for an instance and hardened once more as he thought of all that would be lost if he dared to give up now. Pushing forward and bringing his arms to his side, he streamlined and shot down toward the streets below with great haste.

The wind whipped at him, his loose shirt and pants offering some resistance but not much. The wand came into sight, and reaching forward with his right hand he snatched it, brandishing it in one fluid motion. The ground grew closer and spinning to look up he found his target, one of the five and shooting his arm toward him with great accuracy he bellowed, "_Ad Arcana!_"

The pull began instantly and it jarred him nearly into unconsciousness. He began soaring towards the Death Eater. Spinning again, he brought his legs so that he came at the Servant with a powerful kick, unseating him. It happened so fast that Harry nearly missed his chance; reaching with his left and crying out as his arm was nearly torn off from the still-speeding broom, he grabbed on and swung up on it. He looked down briefly to see the Death Eater crying out in fear as he sped to a gruesome demise.

Yet four still remained and gave chase and it was in the moments before coming upon Magnolia Crescent that he surmised a victory against them would not come in the air – he would have to make his flight on the ground. He largely hoped the Order of the Phoenix arrived soon thereafter, breeching whatever preventive measures Voldemort had placed upon his coming. Touching down with haste behind a large tree, he jumped off and raised his wand to the trunk, tapping it and canting, "_Fructis Gravisio_" before running south, down Magnolia Crescent towards Jasperlode Road. As the Death Eaters cut too close to the branches of the tree in their mad dash, the tree came to life, large branches swinging towards them, the trunk itself seeking to give its arms extra reach by stretching towards them.

Only one met his demise against the tree, a large branch unseating him, sending him into the trunk with a mad, sickening, crunching, mashing sound that reverberated along the tightly knit road. A silky but out-of-breath voice cut through the rustle and from his outstretched wand sped forth a white light that caused the tree to halt its attack. As all of this happened, Harry took to whispering, "_Nox_" in every which direction he could. Lights flickered out, unable to hold the magic, insignificant as it was, and soon the southern part of the street was lit only by the crescent form of the moon.

Three chants of "_Lumos_" made their way to Harry's ears and three patches of brightness alit upon the tip of Death Eater wands could be seen in the two hundred meters that separated Harry from certain doom.

The silky voice came once more, this time curt: "Harry James Potter" and it stayed Harry's movement for he knew the voice well and almost loathed the man it belonged to. Lucius Malfoy's pristine, well-shined snake-skin boots clicked along the pavement as his voice tempted Harry's wand, "I am sure you have waited a long time for this moment." He moved painfully slow and swung his wand in a leisurely manner from place to place; he was enjoying this greatly and from it Harry knew there would be more than three Death Eaters between him and freedom.

"The very moment the Dark Lord makes himself known to this world and our world, once more."

Lucius continued pacing until he was one hundred and fifty meters away from Harry, who stood crouched behind a corner of a well-to-do-house, half-listening and half-attempting to formulate a plot to escape. Lord Malfoy's voice ensnared Harry again, however: "What was it that Dumbledore said about the Blood Protection that your mother gave to you and your dear Aunt Petunia," and it was again that Harry's heart stopped and and cold filled it, causing it to beat erratically. "Ah, yes… yes," Lucius drawled every so joyfully, "So long as Lord Voldemort himself does not make an attempt upon the house…. The Defenses. Will. Hold."

The two next to Lord Malfoy laughed so strangely that it was almost a cackle and it pierced the night, darkening Harry's resolve further. "Surely you must know by now, Harry, that the Dark Lord has agents everywhere. In the Ministry. In the press rooms. In your beloved school and yes, even in the vaunted Order of the Phoenix do we lie undetected."

"But you of course must recall the exploits of Peter Pettigrew – he will, won't he, Peter," Lucius asked, walking once more; Harry swallowed with difficulty, "You'll have to tell me that story again, Peter – how you were there that night, showing our Master the way. You'll have to tell me the exact words the Mudblood used as she pleaded for mercy from our Master," he said, chuckling.

"Y-yes, of course, Lord Malfoy," came the nearly controlled voice of Peter "Wormtail" Pettigrew.

Harry began visibly shaking as he tried to stay his wand but before he knew it he was looking around the corner and into the back of the man who had the gall to agree to tell such a story; who had been filled with fear and who had betrayed his parents. Harry slowly, inch by inch, turned towards his wand, looking at it – it was pointed directly at Wormtail. He shut his eyes, beginning to shake. "No," his mind cautioned him, harshly, "No – not this evening will there be retribution." It was a trap, he knew, and he pulled his wand to his side once more.

"Come out, Harry Potter," continued Lord Malfoy once more, turning and growing a bit impatient, "There will be no escaping this time; hiding is futile, you silly boy. There will be no slipping through the cracks; no mother's ancient magic to aid your already astronomical luck and no Order of the Phoenix. In what will be one of His greatest hours, He has pulled every stop and tonight He will bring fury upon this area and He will vanquish you, repaying you for the thirteen years you slighted Him."

"It is no use," he reiterated, the voice continued, ensnaring Harry, "The Muggles in this vicinity are being rounded up, as we speak, Harry Potter. They will be fed to the Dementors who have sworn an oath of fealty to our Master this evening. The Giants from the Continent will arrive shortly thereafter, showing the full extent of the Dark Lord's powers. You will be granted the greatest of mercies, Harry Potter. Swift. Death. It is in this night that both you and the World of Muggles fall."

"But not everything about it is entirely bad, is it Harry? You won't have to witness this world torn asunder; you won't have to witness the Weasleys picked off one by one in their ramshackle house, their pathetic, miserable attempts at being do-gooders cut short. It is what will happen to those who oppose us, Harry, I am sorry to say," and Lucius chuckled.

"You won't have to watch as that Mudblood friend of yours is tortured by the Dementors till insanity. You won't have to bear witness to the Werewolves sacking Hogwarts and shredding those inflicted with impure blood. You will be gone so that your heart, wielding so much love and care," he dripped acidly, "will not be troubled by the purging that will reinvigorate this world," he proclaimed, his voice increasing, "It is a gift, Harry Potter, for being the only one to ever cause trouble to our Master."

Hundreds of scenes flashed through his mind and he began shuddering as all of them grew darker than the last until he arrived at the last one – the one that caused a single tear to slink down his now pale cheeks. He hardly understood it at all, for nothing in it was familiar to him; not the surroundings, the people involved or the event that took place. All he truly understood was within this image lied beauty and innocence… and the greatest tragedy he had ever envisioned. A forest setting became clear to him and it lay before him and she kneeled before him – him of all people, as if she knew him and perhaps even… cared for him. And in the most mournful voice, did she ask, "What have I done? Do you not… love me?"

Harry nearly lost consciousness once again as he fell back against the wall; his eyes opened quickly as he lost his balance and slid to the ground. With all his might, he forced the image from his mind. Nothing of it was clear to him. In truth, he wanted to think more of it, of the woman and the forest that boasted large trees that glimmered gold but the hour grew late and his chances for survival grew slimmer with each passing minute. With steely resolve, he took his wand, pointed it at the balls of his feet and whispered, ever so quietly, "_Arimathea_." Moving in the tall grass, he made no noise but it was not enough he believed to avoid detection – because of that, he wished helplessly that he had his father's cloak still.

Continuing at a steady pace, the sounds of Lucius Malfoy, Peter Pettigrew and the remaining Death Eater faded and with that, the sounds on the street adjacent picked up. Startling him, short bursts pierced the air; they were cries cut short by the Silencing Spell. Harry knew that what Lucius said would be carried out without much hesitation. They would indeed round up the Muggles, silence them, and guard them until Lord Voldemort's most insidious Servants arrived. And by then it would be too late – their souls would be taken.

The thought struck Harry hard and it was then that he realized he was running from this.

"Not while you still live Harry, will Voldemort's defeat be insurmountable; we may suffer a thousand losses; five thousand; ten thousand – even a hundred thousand but Voldemort could still be defeated," had said Dumbledore, "If however, it should come to pass that you die, then this world will fall to the Darkness."

Dumbledore's words forced a great struggle within him, one that he had pushed aside in hopes of being more of what Dumbledore sought in a possible apprentice; he had not stopped to ponder the Dursleys' fate nor anyone elses' this night because of it and it forced the turmoil to the front. Dumbledore had not elaborated further that evening and Harry had not pressed forward for at the time he could not speak with ease for he was too distraught. In his heart, he also felt it caused the Headmaster much pain though Harry knew not why. It caused Harry to grow curious as to how he was tied to Voldemort and even more curious as to how the Headmaster gained such information.

But this, Harry did not care for in this moment. He looked down, realizing he had stopped; he turned towards where they were likely gathering the Muggles. Closing his eyes, Harry breathed deeply, opened them again and began moving in that direction, his course of action set. He asked forgiveness, for he respected Dumbledore greatly but not while their was still life in him would he ever let such a massacre come to pass without even a fool's attempt at intervention. He began moving briskly, wand at the ready and as he moved ever closer to the slaughter, many voices played to him.

"_You go to your death."_

"_Here lies the Boy-Who-Lived, Failure and Bringer of Death upon the Wizarding World."_

"_It is our choices that define who we are."_

"_Your death."_

"_Your mother's love…"_

"_Death… where the Shadows Lie…"_

"_Lemon drop?"_

"_I will not say, 'Do not weep,' for not all tears are an evil."_

"_Edhelaran!"_

"_Harry James Potter!"  
_

He did not understand half of it; he did not care – phantoms sought to deter him but not in this moment, not while the Muggles were there, suffering. Soon he was in a run and his adrenaline was up, his weariness doused. Barreling forward, he rushed right into a Death Eater, knocking him down and trouncing him. Casting "_Malleus Maleficarum_" downward, without looking, he continued forward and the rest of the Death Eaters – three of them – now focused on him.

"Harry James Potter has come to play," shouted one of them, gleefully and he fired a red streak into the air from the tip of his wand, "Oh-Oh-Oh, this will be just delicious," he cackled and as one, the three stalked forward towards him. Looking briefly at the Muggles tied up and face down in the middle of the street, Harry brandished his wand and charged forward, faster, chanting, "_Alrischa!_"

A surge swept forward, pressing in a semi-circle, knocking the advancing Servants back. Giving them no time to respond, he charged one, elbowing him in the gut and locking wands with him. He trounced him upon the driveway of Number 6, dispatching him with little effort. Spinning to the remaining two, he showed the meaning of quick, shouting "_Esprit Salvete!_" Lightning surged forth and struck the swiftly-cast shield of one of Lord Voldemort's Servants. Both now held before them gold threads of light cast in the form of a shield but Harry charged forward again, menacing fervor outweighing reason and common sense.

Their wands locked above them and spell after spell began flying to and fro across Privet Drive. Harry would dodge left, fire right and behind him the Death Eaters would spin, side-stepping all the while their robes danced about them and around Harry. The Death Eaters swarmed Harry, daring him to do more than defend. As the battle drew on, the Servants' spells increased in lethality, all the while Harry's spells became less powerful and more precise – he was biding his time as spell after spell broke upon the shields all three now wielded.

Not four feet were they apart from one another when Harry answered their challenge to dare, striking. Faking left, Harry waited and as the Death Eater came toward him he shot back his right leg with all his might. His kick connected with the Servant in his stomach. An "oough" echoed forth as Harry brought his fist forward into the other Death Eater's ivory mask. Harry regretted it the moment the punch left him but it was too late. Using his wand he cast a quick Stunning Charm and in the very moment the battle ended, the adrenaline that led him to a quick victory fled him.

Weariness and his heavy heart caught up to him as he spun and clutched his now throbbing left hand. He surveyed the area, looking once at the first Death Eater he felled that still burned and from which smoke rose into the sky; next he surveyed the man he had left upon the driveway and then the two he dispatched with great effort near the pile of Muggles, who wriggled and moved erratically, trying to break free of the powerful constraints placed upon them.

Harry remained standing though only half of his mind was with him in the current place, the other wanting to stray back to the forest, where everything seemed pleasant - The golden trees, a brighter sun and her….

It would be a soft clap that brought all of Harry back.

"Bravo, Harry," came His voice and Harry was not surprised to hear it. He knew it had been in vain when the Servant sent warning into the sky. Harry felt no remorse for his actions, however. Not a single one for condemning all the wizards and witches to a fate far worse than death. He turned to Voldemort and stared at the creature, for that was what he was – nothing but a despicable abomination that was once a man. Harry never moved his wand – it was moot; he was exhausted.

Voldemort moved forward and Harry now could see all of him in the moonlight– his slim, weak-looking body upon the shoulders of which sat a decrepit, grim face twisted by Darkness. Sick, shot eyes which within stood crimson pupils that sought to extinguish all the warmth they came across. Struggling, Harry challenged Voldemort's calm, "Come to do what your pathetic servants could not, Lord Voldemort?"

To Harry's surprise, Voldemort said nothing, moving forward and drawing his wand. Voldemort turned from him to look at his Servants and Harry's eyes shut slowly. Upon reopening them, he caught Voldemort turning swiftly and saying something – casting something he had never heard before. Blue light slammed into Harry's left leg, just below the knee cap. Blood splattered forth over Harry and onto the road as Harry buckled, falling to his knees in a painful crunch. His eyes widened and dilated as Voldemort paced forward, a small smile playing upon him.

"Not this night, will I waste my chance Harry Potter," he whispered and before Harry could understand it, a viridian light streaked across the distance and caught Harry in his right shoulder. An audible pop echoed forth and a ripping noise sent the Death Eaters into clapping as Harry's arm dislocated and shot back. Blood again sprayed and his left arm went limp. He began losing control, the voices and images slowly beginning to return and the Death Eaters' laugh were the music to the images until again, one of Voldemort's spells hit him. Harry lunged forward to the pavement. The spell hit him right in the abdomen and he spun on his back – red blood, black blood and a host of other things spilled forth from the large wound. Harry's eyes began rolling.

Convulsing and rasping he opened his eyes to see the world turn gray around him – shouts echoed forth; Voldemort moved from him and soon lights zipped back and forth, accompanied by screams and large racket. Harry blinked and looked into the west, away from it all – and it was then he saw her again and the forest clearing appeared before him as if he were convulsing right there, right beside the trees that gleamed gold. She stopped suddenly and turned to him, looking directly at him and said in a wondrous voice, "Who are you who enters these woods?"

Harry closed his eyes and just shook his head a small increment to each side, groaning as the pain forced him into another fit.

Opening them again, he found himself being held and he rasped. Blood spurted forth from out his mouth and as he looked up he caught blue eyes – Dumbledore's eyes – and smiled. He tried to tell him… tried to tell him but all he could do was rasp as more blood spilled from his mumbling lips. Dumbledore's eyes were filled with sadness but Harry knew if he told him about her he would be happy.

He hacked forth one last time, drew one last breath and as the grey rain-curtain of the world rolled back, and all the things around him turned to silver glass, a white light took him as he smiled unendingly in Dumbledore's arms.


	3. Chapter Two

_Chapter Two_  
**The Road to Ruin, pt. I**

Nothing remained.

The white light that had sought him out soon fled him, moving back towards the west. It teased him to follow; enticed him with white shores under a swift-rising sun and all things good in the world. He refused.

He did not understand what he had just done by refusing the call, for his knowledge, his memories and his own language fled him in his fall and all of it seemed to be just out of reach for him. But fear and doubt had remained and it stayed him from hearkening the call.

Where he was now he had not the means to comprehend – it seemed without time and nothing changed. He was also without sight and therefore nothing entered him for what seemed ages. When vague knowledge did eventually enter him, madness occurred. In the madness, he attempted to find answers but everything slipped from him and eluded him. It was futile for a time – how long, he too was incapable of knowing. But eventually, enough knowledge crept back into him and in his first moments of true sanity he entertained following the beckon into the west.

Once more however, fear stayed his hand and soon he stayed where none like him should stay.

Who was he? What was he? _Where _was he?

The questions filtered through him and he realized in the darkness he was formless, without touch and smell and without the means to move. All of these things he could ascertain but for however long it was (for he still could not understand time and its movement), he could not come to figure out who he was and what he was. The memories and experiences were still very far out of reach.

Finally sight returned to him and it moved him, for memories of once seeing did not belong to him yet. It caused confusion and in this confusion he experienced movement and with movement there came more confusion. Still he did not know what he was, for the knowledge he possessed gave him no feasible answer. He came to agree he was formless, for when he moved, he moved through all and over all and could not be blocked by anything he encountered.

What this might mean was lost as he traversed the lands he once knew. The places caused stirrings in him, which led to more confusion. He was used to confusion however, and let it pass over him. And eventually his sight grew and grew; his movement quickened and his knowledge aided him in understanding simplicity and then complexity. He was still without memory until it was per chance… or perhaps _fate_… that he saw something that stirred him greatly.

"It's all gone to hell, hasn't it Hermione," asked a red haired boy, standing beside a Great Tomb. He was tall, gangly and had blue eyes.

_Ron_.

The word entered him and it sat within him for awhile and he stayed perplexed until he finally gave up and searched the room.

It was a great room – greater than the ones he had ever seen but he did not fully comprehend the meaning of this. It was square in shape and possessed a tomb placed at each corner and one directly in the middle; the one 'Ron' stood next to was the middle one and it seemed to have no connection with the ones that lay in the corners. It was made differently and looked different but the confusion this caused him was overlooked as all confusion to him eventually was.

He caught sight of what stood in one of the corners and moved toward it, a new interest found.

Unlike the other three corners, this one held a grand statue. Beauty is what he felt. The feeling entered him for the first time and swept over him like fire – this was beautiful; this was what beauty was and he understood all at once. Or so he believed.

The statue was large and depicted a woman smiling, head bowed partially, with arms open in reception for those who visited her.

_Rowena Ravenclaw_.

It was Rowena Ravenclaw! The realization of this caused great excitement within him. It stirred more memories to come to him. With the new memories, knowledge began going hand in hand and soon… soon… he was _understanding_. Understanding _things_!

Her tomb and the other tombs… they were made of_ marble_ and were _ornately _carved and still looked _new_.

More memories came to him but nothing new came of them – this put him out. Trying to think upon them led him nowhere, much as all ponderings had since his fall. He did not let this question pass as he had let the others pass, however – he retained this and the thoughts that went with it as he moved to the center.

It was there that the red-haired boy stood, along with a brown-haired girl – _Hermione_.

It – the tomb – was made of _obsidian_. It was beautiful and he realized that beauty was not just that statue but many things; upon the obsidian stone lay a pure white stone statue. It depicted a young man, perhaps no older…. No _older_? _Time_. _Age_. They entered him and he understood. No older than sixty. No, that was wrong. _Wrong_. Things can be wrong. Beautiful is a statue – that was wrong. The meanings of all this flooded him; more memories and more ideas came to him like a torrential downpour.

No older than fifteen – this boy was no older than fifteen!

And then he looked upon the pure white statue, truly. The person _slept peacefully_ upon a _pillow_. In his _right _hand there was a _stick_. Wrong. It wasn't a… _stick_. His arms were folded and the right one was holding a _wand_. He was satisfied with this but was soon troubled – where were the _glasses_? This statue possessed no glasses. And this troubled him some more. What were glasses? Where did the thought come from? He looked upon the face once more and something stirred within him again: _familiarity_.

It frightened him.

What was this _place_? He looked at Ron, into his eyes and all at once he knew and did not know for new concepts floored him as he ripped the knowledge from the boy. It was then, too, that he understood how he gained knowledge: by wanting it and taking it from the _world_ around him.

This was the final resting place of the Founders of Hogwarts. It was a place of great reverence to the people who inhabited this land. It was called the Heart of Hogwarts. It was directly below the Great Hall and the Kitchens, a place where people _ate_. The room earned such a name because it held all the _magic_ that made Hogwarts seem alive.

Rowena Ravenclaw. Salazar Slytherin. Godric Gryffindor. Helga Hufflepuff. They were the Founders. They created Hogwarts.

It was debated for centuries where the _magic _of Hogwarts was kept or how. Hogwarts had defenses; idiosyncrasies that couldn't be explained - _sentience_. It was not discovered that the resting place of the Founders was where all the magic of the castle was held until the 14th century. It was in that time that the thirteenth _Headmaster_, Alexavier Ravenclaw, stumbled upon it. He found the magic and in fear, hid the entire room through clever lies and well placed secret passageways. The resting place fell into obscurity and its existence became myth.

Albus Dumbledore found it. Re-opened it. Used it for the final resting place of Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. Harry Potter. He looked at the statue – Harry Potter. This was Harry Potter and it was _familiar_. More knowledge, more memories and more understanding floored him.

The brown-haired girl moved and she _stared_ at the peaceful countenance the statue held – he knew this, for he looked at her and wished to know what she was doing. Thoughts entered him – _"Harry never looked this peaceful in his life," _and _"It's a lie."_

There was _sadness _but no sadness in her thoughts for the lie, however. There should be sadness, he reasoned – lying is bad for it was being untruthful and being truthful was good. And if untruthful is the opposite of truthful and the opposite of good is bad, then untruthful things were bad things and caused sadness. It was how he understood it and reasoned it to be.

A _sob_ echoed through the room and Ron fell forward unto the statue, _crying_. Hermione paid no attention however and ran her hand along the polished obsidian stone and read to herself the small, gold plaque at the middle:

_None shall come as he has come;  
None shall defend as he has defended;  
His one true home and amongst the Four  
Thus shall he rest for all eternity._

_Harry James Potter  
July 31st, 1980 – July 31st, 1995_

Ron looked up at Hermione with doleful eyes, shaking his head slowly. Pain was in his voice and great sadness made his speaking difficult, "It's not supposed to end this way – it's not," he said, wiping furiously at the tears, "He could've… he could've been something! Anything - anything under the bloody sun! That was Harry Potter," he exclaimed, each word getting louder than the previous, "What you see here isn't how it was drawn up… no. No it can't be," and he coughed roughly, tears still coming, "He hasn't even… he hasn't even… he hasn't," and he trailed off, mumbling incoherently as he sank to the floor, burying his head into his interlocked hands.

He entered Hermione's thoughts again, troubled. _"It was a beautiful funeral... Dumbledore delivered a moving eulogy... It would rally many..." _And he understood – this Harry Potter died _recently_. He also understood that Harry Potter was revered and that his death had rallied many – but not Hermione's. He felt this for her countenance was broken. It was then that he began to understand feelings.

"_Harry Potter made me who I am." _

He pondered upon this thought for awhile, until he understood it to be _metaphorical_. Harry Potter was not a builder,_ literally_. No, he had helped this girl become who she was, metaphorically.

"_He breathed emotion into me… someone who cared for very little outside of school… and with him gone… I am but a hollow shell again. I have failed him..."_

He did not understand this, at all. Had she killed Harry Potter? Wasn't that bad? Probably, he concluded before searching again.

_"There's no point… the Mudbloods and Muggles are being rounded up… one by one for the slaughter. And the only person who has shown me any bit of friendship is gone... I have failed him... The world is changing because of his passing… and I am too… more studying – I'll find a way… less talking – no one to talk too… I'm getting sick with thoughts… but then again, there is no desirable end in sight… a new government has been heralded in – good on you Dumbledore... The people now aware of the Dark Lord's existence cower in fear, neither pledging to the Dark Lord, nor to the new Government..."_

Harry Potter. Familiarity. They came again. He understood now that the funeral had just ended moments ago and that the world was in _trouble_. Bad things were happening to it – like lying, he presumed.

He wanted to know more and moved around the area. He had trouble at first as he usually just moved erratically but with a little practice and his new want to comprehend things, he finally moved out of the room and into the _emerald hall_ that led unto the Heart of Hogwarts. It was there that he came upon another pair of persons. He searched them and thus knew them as Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and Minister of Magic Albus Dumbledore.

They talked, _privately_ and away from others – this was done, Harry learned, so that it was kept secret and _in confidence_.

"Pardon me for doing so, Albus… especially during a time of mourning. But I must. I must know: what are we going to do," McGonagall inquired, her lightly-wrinkled face set with worry. She turned and faced away from Albus, pausing a moment before continuing, "It has only been little over a decade, Albus – most of us remember what happened; most of us know what it is like to be without hope… without even a fool's hope …," and she shuddered, turning and staring into Dumbledore's eyes, "This is not a second war to this world, Albus. It is just a continuation of his first wrath. Hope is already gone from us because of that – and what little hope there could have been now lays broken in an obsidian stone tomb that may not even last the ravages of You-Know-Who…"

"We were counting the days then, Albus – and now that Mr. Potter… and now that Harry-," and here she covered her mouth with her hand as the grief of Harry Potter's death took her again; her eyes watered and she looked down, removing her hand and finishing, "Now that he is gone, we are starting the counting right where we left off," she breathed, her mouth quavering a bit in the process.

Albus Dumbledore closed the distance and laid a hand on Minerva's shoulder and peered down at her, "It's a very good question, Minerva… and you are right of course," he conceded, looking as if he remembered it all, "You will find little hope in this world."

Minerva's hopes looked dashed in that instant but Dumbledore continued.

"Those Purebloods who fear Tom Riddle and who are not of strong countenance will join him or eventually be broken by him, when found, that is for certain. But one would think the Muggleborns and Half-Bloods of our world would be enough to give _Tom Riddle_ a run for his money. We must not entertain such a thought however – they will not join the Ministry in this fight. They too will cower in their homes. Riddle knows this. He probably hasn't stopped smiling since the night he took Harry's life; now all that lays between him and victory is the government."

"And what of this government," he asked rhetorically, "It is weak; it always was," he answered, smiling at the irony of it all. "We will not be even able to persuade those who abide its laws to help us."

"Even with me at its helm, it is very weak," he said answering Minerva's thoughts and beginning to move around her, "But there is the Order of the Phoenix. There are the Hit-Wizards who are strong and plentiful. And we must not forget the Aurors who are comprised of many dauntless individuals who would lay all on the line for England," he said, facing her directly, a dark look coming upon him, "And there are the secrets that lay hidden within the depths of the Department of Mysteries. Dangerous things they are; forces we mortals have no business deal with, I believe. They are there, however… and if the situation is dire enough, I will call upon their aid."

Moving from what seemed like such a dark thought to him he began pacing again, "They will all be combined and restructured – all of the forces, that is," he corrected, acting as if his mention of the Department of Mysteries never occurred. Minerva took this to mean 'Never Speak of it. Ever.'

"And of course! I couldn't possibly forget that," he exclaimed, "It's very special, you see," he continued, smiling largely and giving a small wink, "Something quite genius, if I will allow myself a compliment; something that will be done when the time is right."

They lapsed into silence for awhile before Dumbledore realized Minerva was still quite distressed. "Do not lose hope, Minerva," he chided in a fatherly manner, "We will not give up. Not until Tom and the last of his forces are gone."

"It was prophecy after all, that said only Harry's hand would be capable of vanquishing Tom," he shared with Minerva, "And I whole-heartedly agree."

Before Minerva could speak her mind, Dumbledore continued, "But that would count us out then, wouldn't it," he said with a smile, saying what she had been about to ask, "Throwing in the towel, one Muggle might put it? I say no to that, Minerva."

"Prophecies are a delicate thing, you see. At first glance all seems clear – that they could not be more straightforward. But then you look at it again. And again. And with each new look, you begin seeing things that weren't there. This is why I still have hope, Minerva."

"Don't you see," he asked, grabbing Minerva by the shoulders and peering down at her, smiling all the while, "Don't you? Harry's hand _is_ still with us. It is because of him that we still move against Tom Riddle, daring never to bow out until he is vanquished. There are far more who stand against Tom this time around, Minerva. Harry has planted the seeds of change, watered them and given them his own light," he said with much eloquence, a wizened smile on his lips, "And not in a thousand years will the light he has brought us be put out."

"So I say 'no' Minerva," he whispered, "No to giving up. Not will these old bones give up when a child stood strong through the greatest horrors of our time."

Minerva shared a smile as well and said, "Perhaps I won't be counting the days then, Albus."

He mused for awhile on all of this – he understood the situation more clearly now. Or so he thought. He was in a time of great trouble. There was a Dark Lord. A Dark Lord was bad and caused pain. This Dark Lord's name was Tom Riddle and the pain he caused had started recent and yet he had caused much grief already. This was because he had tried once before to take over. That was his goal; to take over. Many people did not have hope for they had lived through the first struggle; others had had hope and had lost it when Harry Potter died. _Death_. Death made sense to him now – the grieving and the pain and he believed he understood it.

Still he wanted to know more. He wanted to experience this trouble. He wanted to… _help_.

The thought shocked him. Help? And then he pondered upon it. He could not help. He was formless. And as he moved around, weaving in and out and through and above and below the people who were in Hogwarts, he realized none _saw _him. He was _invisible_. This distressed him for a time and all thoughts of helping were soon doused.

But there was persistence in him. He still wanted to know. What had made Tom Riddle cause all this trouble? Why did he cause all this trouble? Was there a reason? Were people born this way? The whole situation had caused great confusion to him. And there was the thing he had been searching for from the beginning.

What he was. He was formless, true – but everything had a name, it seemed – some even had two or three or even more. Did he have a name? And who was he? Was he _magical_? And still there was the biggest question…

Harry Potter. Familiarity. What did it mean?

It was then, in that moment that he _wished_ to understand what was happening around him.

And in turn, the world around him faded….


End file.
